Poems About Autumn

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too,While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Where are the merry birds?--Away, away,On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prestLike tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs To a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,--The many, many leaves all twinkling?--ThreeOn the moss’d elm; three on the naked limeTrembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad’s immortality?--Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard,The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have wing’d across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spellsAmongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a love-rosary,Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drownèd pastIn the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair:She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;--There is enough of wither’d everywhereTo make her bower,--and enough of gloom;There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty’s,--she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,--Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;Enough of fear and shadowy despair,To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-- The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,Shines with the image of its golden screen And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed Forever in thy colored shades to stray;Amid the kisses of the soft southwest To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.

The far-off, blue, HomericRim of the world's great shield,A border of boundless glamorFor the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichenThe boulders lie in the sun;Along its grassy footpath,The white-tailed rabbits run.The crickets work and chirrupThrough the still afternoon;And the owl calls at twilightUnder the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambersOver the tumbling wall,And through the autumnal quietThe chestnuts open and fall.Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,Part of the earth's great soul,Here man's spirit may ripenTo wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters?--Never reluctant nor sad,Not counting the cost of being,Living to dare and be glad.Shall we not lift with the cricketsA chorus of ready cheer,Braving the frost of oblivion,Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumachAnd the woodbine's crimson spraysHave bannered the common roadsideFor the pageant of passing days.These are the oracles NatureFills with her holy breath,Giving them glory of color,Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlightA spirit seems to broodOn the beauty and worth of being,In tranquil, instinctive mood;And the heart, athrob with gladnessSuch as the wise earth knows,Wells with a full thanksgivingFor the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurtureOf the teeming primordial ground,For the splendid gospel of color,The rapt revelations of sound;For the morning-blue above usAnd the rusted gold of the fern,For the chickadee's call to valorBidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water,Snowfall and summer rain;For sunsets and quiet meadows,The fruit and the standing grain;For the solemn hour of moonriseOver the crest of trees,When the mellow lights are kindledIn the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime,Led by the mystic strainTo strive for the larger freedom,And live for the greater gain;For plenty and peace and playtime,The homely goods of earth,And for rare immaterial treasuresAccounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship,Where beneficent truth is supreme,Those everlasting citiesBuilt on the hills of dream;For all things growing and goodlyThat foster this life, and breedThe immortal flower of wisdomOut of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spiritThat can not rest nor bideIn stale and sterile convenience,Nor safety proven and tried,But still inspired and driven,Must seek what better may be,And up from the loveliest gardenMust climb for a glimpse of sea.

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown;When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone;

When heavy and hollow the robin's whistleAnd shadows are deep in the heat of noon;When the air is white with the down o' the thistle,And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,No time let slip, not a moment wait!If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning;And they who would wed must be done with their mooning;So let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

Abroad: I in this naked berryOf flesh that stands dismayed on the bush;And I in the stealthy, brindled odoursProwling about the lush

And acrid night of autumn;My soul, along with the rout,Rank and treacherous, prowling,Disseminated out.

For the night, with a great breath intaken,Has taken my spirit outsideMe, till I reel with disseminated consciousness,Like a man who has died.

At the same time I stand exposedHere on the bush of the globe,A newly-naked berry of fleshFor the stars to probe.